


you're never coming round

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, Cap Secret Santa 2018, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Christmas, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, civil war didn't happen :)))
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 12:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: A look into Bucky’s time in Bucharest, as he tries to adjust to normal life and make a few amends along the way.





	you're never coming round

**Author's Note:**

> I was courageous enough to sign up for TWO secret santa's this year (when I say my anxiety has been crazy I-) and this is, as you can read, my captain America one!
> 
> this is for the lovely  buckysbrat  who gave me free reign over to what to write and do- we both love angst, isn't that amazing?
> 
> all mistakes are my own but i hope you enjoy this nonetheless! :)

It was cold in the rented apartment. He hated it.

Icy gales that collided catastrophically squeezed through the cracks in the walls and infested his desolate home, extinguishing the little warmth that it had conjured from a sun which had since descended. Crystalline frost that shouldn’t be there covered the surfaces as it scurried to him, engulfing the little life which Bucky preserved in its wake.

The warmth that coursed through his veins slowly depleted, surrendering to the vicious element that would soon paint his body and send him under- under to- no. No. He was not freezing again.

Pulling his gloved fingers out of the front pockets of his stolen jacket, Bucky blew on them pathetically, rubbing his palms together to generate heat which would reignite some function in his body. He had to leave. Get out, buy some sort of heater and then return, sufficiently prepared to combat the ice before it took him again.

Time told him it was an unconventional hour; most shops and electronic outlets would be closed so to scavenge for anything would be futile. The cold would envelop him the moment his feet left the building and wrap his body into a cocoon of snow. To escape the rigid freeze, he had to remain indoors. Endure it.

But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t bear to stand the torturous process of every miniscule cell thrumming only for it to grow dormant. Lifeless. At the mercy of another.

But he would. He didn’t have a choice, with Hydra or without.

 

* * * *

 

The landlord was nice. Saw him inspecting the building with attentive eyes and said he’d accept the crumpled lei’s; since then ignored complaints of barred windows (it was newspaper, not paint) and didn’t question anything. The mattress was left by the previous tenant, filthy and full of grime but easy to manoeuvre and not in danger of being destroyed. He liked breaking things. 70 years of suppressed rage did that.

Sparsely furnished, the apartment contained nothing. The fridge was courtesy of the building and empty, as were the cupboards and shelves. Wrappers of street food laid on the counter because he didn’t want to clean- didn’t have to. The room was a mess.

There was a bathroom: a faulty shower, stained toilet and leaky sink; he didn’t go there as often as he should. The stench of his body odour proved so, but like many things in his life, he didn't want to. So, didn’t.

Bucharest was everything he hoped for, quiet, local and anonymous. There weren’t many tourist to recognise him and his face blended within the endless stream of white faces. He became just like them. How he knew their language, he didn’t know but he did and that was all that mattered.

Bucharest was safe.

 

* * * *

 

Christmas. Multi coloured lights on strings snapped to form images, people lingered on the streets for longer, movies of laughter and joy played everywhere, but there was none of the cheer that people voiced in their lives. The bleakness was concealed by feigned jubilation. It was all an act.

Only a thief who stole happiness could detect it. And he was the greatest of them all.

Snowflakes pivoted to the ground, concealing the earth in a layer of snow that cleansed it of its sin, and froze the unimaginable wrongdoings just for the holidays. It was not a time to mourn, it was a time to dance. When the ice melted, the evil and horrors would re-emerge and haunt them once more. Freedom from sin was a myth, he knew better than anyone.

Bucky’s landlord, he enjoyed Christmas. For some inexplicable reason, he told him so himself.

“Ah, Barnes!” he exclaimed, hobbling up the stairs with a newspaper in one hand and the other resting on the handrail. One leg was shorter than the other, or so he said. Couldn't afford the proper shoes for his feet so he didn’t get them. The limp was with him for life.

Clearing his throat, Bucky replied, “yes?” keeping his eyes down but ears up. He didn't have to see a threat to know it’s there. He’d always hear it first.

“How are you? Merry Christmas!” the old man said, coughing harshly afterward as the detriment that followed the weather ravaged his lungs. “It is a time for miracles, why do you look so glum?”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Florin,” he said, ignoring the intrusive questions and rolling his shoulders back to ease some tension. He was safe. (He wasn't the one in danger) “Thank you for the wish.”

A sudden noise- behind them- something dropped. His eyes widened. Someone's coming. They found him. The found him. Looking down the stairs immediately, his fear struck eyes saw no-one and nothing suspicious. Insatiable, all he knew was: he had to leave.

“Christmas has always been special to me, I have always loved it. Do you like Christmas?” his landlord asked expectantly, raising an eyebrow and choosing to ignore the way Bucky’s fingers were clenched at his side and his face was angled to side, eyes darting to what they had left behind.

“I have no opinion of it,” he answered carefully, voice evidently strained with the control he had to prevent his anxiety from seeping out of its seams. He didn’t have opinions on many things.

Heart racing in his chest wildly, fight or flight shouting at him to react rather than be immobile, he breathed deeply through his nose and dropped his head to either side, cracking his neck in preparation. He had to protect his landlord and himself and then get the fuck out of there.

“Why not? Go outside, get some of the festive cheer!” he was recommended but Bucky couldn't, didn’t want to even. He needed his shitty apartment that was falling apart just like him, then and there.

“I have to leave,” he hastily said, offering no explanation because he didn’t have to. There were no more reports and missions and answering to people. Just him.

His landlord nodded and excused him, allowing him to leave because regardless of how much Bucky hated authority, he still lived by it and needed permission. He promised never again, but the indoctrination embedded into his mind and soul took his freedom along with his body and memories.

He was always going to belong to someone.

 

* * * *

 

Life on the run meant forgoing what little luxuries there were, and for Bucky that meant clothes. His backpack, small and compact, designed for escaping and definitely not hoarding meant he couldn’t carry clothes. Attire acquired in every stay was donated, it was no use to him.

In Bucharest he found that clothing was inexpensive, he could splurge a couple of lei to buy a top or two, right? Which is why he did, stealing only socks as he wasn’t fortunate enough to pay for everything.

But he had enough, something clean for him to wear when he showered (which was a rarity in itself) while the other outfit dried on the counter. It wasn’t much, but what more could he ask for? With a red ledger dripping in blood, it was more than he deserved, and he wouldn’t question it. Good things didn’t last long for him, that he could vouch for.

 

* * * *

 

Sustaining what little he had was hard. Hyperinflation ruined the economy. During Christmas, where prices rocketed to unattainable planets and his measly change didn’t work, he struggled the most. But he had a stolen credit card, hundreds in euros, dinars and dollars and time; exchanging the money, he examined the reaction of the people and concluded nobody caught onto his scent yet, he could stay for longer.

But it wasn’t long until they did, he reminded himself, eyes scanning the apartment room ensuring he was alone. They were searching, he had to be prepared.

So, using a crowbar he found he pulled a floorboard near the window and stared at the hollow space beneath it. Everything important stayed within the backpack when he left without it. It contained all the most important information he obtained whilst on the run and being unable to take it out with him, he’d have to hide it in case of an emergency.

Nothing was guaranteed in his life, not even a trip to the local store.

 

* * * *

 

Living near the market had some perks, notably that there was a cafe close by where he could purchase hot chocolate, a winter delicacy. Sat on a table alone, journal open on the white surface with a pen resting in the spine, he sipped the drink, looking out of the window where the sky was grey, and the air was chill.

A sprinkle of snow remained on the ground, but more was coming. Bucky heard two people discuss it even though he didn’t mean to, but he heard a lot these days. How the women shrieked on the phones and the men covered the speakers, looking around to verify that no one was looking. How someone spent the weekend on someone's couch, too drunk to even move. How there was a body in the hospital rotting and decay with the host alive to witness it all.

But inside, watching the out where civilians laughed and joked and minded their own business, he was happy not to hear anything. Could observe without words to distract him. They were all the same, in the end. They did the same as each other.

 

* * * *

 

The Smithsonian was no help (“best friends since childhood, Buc-”), relayed the war efforts of Captain America on repeat and showcased a younger depiction of his face on the wall.

The clothes, ones specifically tailored by Howard Stark, decorated faceless mannequins that stood tall and proud despite him knowing- a feeling simmering in his chest threatening to erupt like a volcano telling him that in war he never felt as composed as they did. Bracketed into a box by the wounds of Azzano, he could only imagine the suffering he endured.

Learning who he was proved difficult. The library was home to magical phenomenon that sent his brain waves awry as he tried to comprehend the implications and the notions behind why he hadn’t deactivated like he was supposed to. It was there he learnt what human meant, the essence of life and the reason behind existence. He wasn’t a machine, he was flesh and bone. If he was to deactivate, it would be delivered by all his body shutting down for one last time and never turning back on.

The real world didn’t work like cryo did, nor did sleep or other bodily functions. He was a supposed adult trapped in an adult’s body without guidance or assistance trying to make do with the information pouring into him, and that was scary but so, so, so amazing. It proved he wasn’t Hydra’s property anymore, he was the dictator of himself. He was his own person.

But he wasn’t, and the way he reacted to his life only confirmed it. He’d never be his own person, all of him scattered across time and space itself. Bucky Barnes was the carcass of a decaying soul and nothing he thought or did could change it. It was his destiny to wither.

 

* * * *

 

Nightmares were inescapable, just like everything else in his life. That night was no different.

Jolting to consciousness breathing heavy with no recollection of what he saw, just immense dread submerging him in torrential waves of snow painted with red blood smearing on the ice as he’s dragged away. What did it mean? He sat up, looking around the dark room.

Shadows followed his gaze, silhouettes of people he couldn’t name and faces of those he didn’t remember- he couldn’t be Bucky Barnes. That was a dead man. So, who was he? A soldier with a back full of sins and a trail of cries of people he had killed.

His victims were far from few; raiding Hydra bases sent him on a scavenger hunt for all the information he could ever find. Politicians, Generals, associates, scientists, family members, he had killed them all.

He didn’t know how, couldn’t coerce his trembling hands to still for his wandering eyes to read the mission reports. But he did it, and despite the dissociation he felt from his crimes, knew that the fingers which clenched the mattress and formed a fist on his heaving chest were responsible for it.

He needed a drink, he thought. Lingering in the room where the ghosts watched him expectantly- he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t-

There would be a place open for him. For the rest of the night, he’d be there.

And he was, drinking and drinking and drinking until he didn't feel like an imposter hiding in war hero’s body. But it came as no surprise when he remained conscious and sober. Nothing numbed the pain, not anymore.

He was a murderer, despite what his face declared, there would be no absolution for him in this lifetime.

 

* * * *

 

The apartment had been infiltrated. Intentionally, the door was left ajar allowing the breeze of Bucky’s presence to sweep inside. He exhaled a shuddery breath. The confrontation: it was going to end in a fight. It always did.

Carefully, he entered the room, mentally cataloguing the escape routes and examining the space to ensure nothing had been moved. A quick sweep confirmed it hadn’t. His plan would work if things were in his favour. He prayed that they were.

In the room, by his fridge where he threw wrappers of chocolate bars and tossed his completed journals aside, was a familiar body that he didn’t want. That he could map with his eyes closed because Hydra could do whatever they wanted to him.

Burn the skin so that his fingerprints would cease. Bury his head in cold water until his eyes turned black and he couldn't see. Strip him so he was naked on the blood-stained concrete with various eyes scrutinizing him as he cried.

But his body would always remember Steve Rogers. He was ingrained into Bucky’s being, a fundamental aspect of his existence that he could never stray from. He was Bucky’s shadow.

And in his world where sunlight had depleted, and the land was barren of corps, he didn’t have Steve. Didn’t even need him. There were white orbs that devastated the place and he couldn’t invite someone to that hell, it was his to contain, and his alone. He came into the 21st century alone and he’d leave it the same way.

Steve turned around, Bucky creaking the specific floorboard he usually avoided by applying pressure, and he put down the book. Threw it away now that the owner had arrived. Bucky watched him warily.

Approaching him timidly, Steve’s mouth gaped, eyes drowned in sorrow. The sympathy which lingered in the iris of the blue ocean was undeserved, Bucky wasn’t the person who could afford such a thing. Nonetheless, it was there, apparent to a blinded man.

“Buck,” he said, offering nothing but the name.

Bucky slowly nodded, keeping his head low but eyes fixed. Any sudden movements and he’d flee. Steve wore civilian clothing, promising a safe interaction as he was not suited for combat. Yet a doubt lingered in his mind that maybe, just maybe things would go awry. He couldn’t get comfortable, and from how tense he was he didn’t imagine it happening anytime soon.

They wore the faces of old friends, both of them. But they were anything than that. Parallel lines that existed beside each other, in the same period but never met. They couldn’t be together, Bucky knew it.

“You’re Steve,” he said, lack of conversation doing that to him. Feigning a life which protected them from each other, he continued, “I read about you at the museum.” It was the truth, he had. But the narrative he was quickly spinning into a web meant that Steve couldn’t know he remembered. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to know.

His face was serious, unchanged from the war pictures and looking younger than he was. In fact, he hadn’t aged at all, only the soul hiding in the body growing old with the wars he faced had. Bucky knew Steve was tired. He also knew that he wouldn’t stop. Face determined, he wouldn’t stop at Bucky’s implications. He wouldn’t be Steve if he did.

“You pulled me from the river. Why?” he asked, almost accusingly as he took an impulsive step forward.

Bucky’s shoulder sagged. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he told him, nodding whilst he spoke and confident till the day he died.

“Then why ask?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. There had to be a purpose for all of this. Things couldn’t happen just for the sake of it.

Steve raised his own in retaliation. “I want to hear you admit it.”

Bucky released a humourless chuckle. “You’re gonna have to wait a long time for that.”

“I can do this all day,” Steve replied.

Bucky felt his spine stiffen.

He imagined this day would come, Steve Rogers tailing the essence of an old friend he was willing to die for. Love like that was rare, Steve was an all or nothing type man. However, now that he had arrived and destiny stared him in the face, Bucky felt...tired. The adrenaline he thought that would consume him ceased to produce.

Perhaps it was the civilian clothing draped on Steve’s body, maybe it was the confidence the man in front of him exuded, or the atmosphere that promised it would be okay. Things were rough, Christmas was here and even if the cheer was artificial, it was there, just not accessible for him. Steve was a promise that it might never be, but contentment? That could. He just had to reach for it.

“You have a lot of time on your hands,” Bucky commented, “don’t you have something worthwhile to do? Things that demand your attention? Something good?”

Steve shrugged. “I’m right where I want to be.”

“It’s almost Christmas,” Bucky started to protest, “why are you here? You should be at home. Celebrating with your friends.”

An ugly look contorted Steve’s face, sorrowful and exhausted, resembling the one expression Bucky had been seeing in the mirror whenever he looked. “I’m home now,” Steve said in a low voice. “My home has always been with you.”

Desperately, Bucky wished he remembered something- anything. Steve Rogers before the suit, who was he? And why was he foolish enough to make his home a man with nothing to offer. A dirty bed, endless night terrors and a body marred in scars which not even the serum could heal. Not all wounds could.

What happened to them?

“Steve,” he began, thinking he could formulate a reply, but his breath caught in his throat. What could he say? What words could he offer when he didn’t have any to begin with. Just a name: a name that was his end and his beginning.

“Nice place you got here,” Steve said conversationally, masking the familiar face to nonchalant and stable. Everything he wasn’t. “Think you’ve got room for another?”

He didn’t.

“No.”

“Well, it’s time I make room for me then, isn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. Starting to walk around, he said, “got a couple of leis on me, we can arrange something. If not, then I’m sure we can get someplace new, shouldn’t be too expensive. I’ll just have to convert-”

“Steve,” he interrupted, face helpless. “What are you doing? There is not room for you here.” In my life. “I think it’s best if you leave.”

Steve’s face hardened. “No.”

“No?” he asked in poorly concealed surprise.

“No,” he confirmed. “Christmas is in four days. Either we spend it together, or I don’t celebrate at all.”

Bucky felt a protest simmer in his chest.

“Do you want me here Buck?” Steve asked, pausing near the mattress and so close to Bucky that they could touch each other with ease. He took an innocently forged step forward. “Be honest with me, please. Do you want me here?”

Steve was looking at him critically, as though he knew everything, and this was child’s play for him. Bucky schooled his face and shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He scowled. “Then why ask? What are you here to prove, Steve?”

“I’m not here to prove anything,” he said, sincere. “I just want to spend the holiday with you. Is that a crime?”

Bucky felt the frustration build inside him. “I have nothing to offer, not even a bed. Why are you- why do you-”

He looked away with a huff. He had to breathe.

“I don’t want any of that,” Steve said. His face warmed with something alluding to concern. “I don’t want any luxuries as long as I’m by your side. Do you- do you even remember me?” He looked uncertain now, previous confidence diminishing. “Is that why you’re like this? You don’t know me?”

Bucky eye’s sighed. “Your mom’s name was Sarah.” On an afterthought he added with a small laugh, “you used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

The relief emitting from Steve was palpable. “Can’t read that in a museum. You know. How much?”

“Enough,” he replied ambiguously. Opening his eyes, they were drawn in by Steve’s oceans. “Enough to know that this can’t happen, Steve, it’s not safe.”

“Safe for who?”

“For you.”

“I don’t think you can make that judgement for me,” Steve said.

Oh, but he was wrong. Bucky knew that he had to. The memories of the helicarrier were spotty but he knew that Steve was prepared to die by Bucky’s hands. Knew that he would have drowned in the water if he didn’t pull him out. Steve was selfless when it came to Bucky, he was impulsively dangerous. He couldn’t make a fair judgement.

“You would have died on the helicarrier,” Bucky told him. “I saved you, but just barely. If I didn’t regain that two per cent then there would be a grave with your body in it by now.”

Steve didn’t look like he disagreed. “I want to be with you, any way you’ll have me.”

“I can’t have more blood spilt on these hands,” he said, looking at his gloved fingers, disconnected. “Definitely not yours.”

Earnestly, Steve said, “you won’t, I won’t let you.”

Bucky stared at him incredulously. “Then prove it. Leave. Prove to me that we can make it work because you will do what is right by you.”

“Why do I have to-”

“Four days,” Bucky intervened. “Four days until Christmas. Four days for you to prove it.”

“But how?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know.” He truly didn’t. “Until then,” he said, stepping backwards and leaving his home.

It was impossible for Steve to prove it, but that would make this goose chase end and allow him to finally move on, rather than searching for a ghost for the rest of his days. The new century was kind for people like him, good people.

Those like Bucky didn’t have the same privilege.

It was better that way.

 

* * * *

 

His resolve was weak.

“Expecting guests for Christmas?” his landlord asked, as they reunited on the stairs.

In his hands were bags. Food, decor, a hastily chosen gift and his demise. He sighed.

“Something like that, Mr. Florin,” he answered.

“Good, good!” the man approved, coughing soon after. His lungs rattled in his chest. “Shouldn’t spend Christmas alone,” he said, “it’s time for family. For happiness. To give. Giving isn’t always a gift, sometimes, it’s a chance. Lord knows we all need one.”

Bucky wanted to scream.

“Are you spending Christmas alone?” he asked instead.

“Ahh, yes. The kids they-” the man swallowed, clearly affected as he struggled to walk up the stairs. Bucky wasn’t sure if he should do something. “The kids spend it with their mother.” Perking immediately, he continued, “I have some food in the microwave and a channel with plenty of movies. I’ll be okay.”

He would. But Bucky couldn’t let it be so. How could he, a sinner with no future spend Christmas (a holiday he doesn’t even care for) with the one he desires the most, yet a generous man like Florin spent it alone. Something was wrong. He couldn’t explain it, but it was.

“Would you- would you care to join me?” Bucky asked, surprising himself. “It’s just going to be the two of us, and we have food to share. No tv I’m afraid.”

A part of him hoped the man would decline. He shushed it instantly, this would be his good deed of his lifetime, eradicating someone’s loneliness for the night.

“Oh. Are you sure? I know you don’t like people, myself included. I’m more than happy to spend it in my-”

“Please,” he said softly, stopping so that the man could catch his breath from all the walking. “You like Christmas, I don’t. I could use the help.”

His landlords face softened. “I’ll be at your flat at six.”

“Knock three times so I know it’s you,” Bucky told him, starting to walk away and giving him some privacy.

His landlord replied, “I’ll bring dessert!”

Bucky didn’t say no, the more the merrier.

The following hour was spent making the place as festive as he could and arranging suitable seating for three people. Would Steve come? Maybe, he wasn't sure. But Florin deserved something, anything and this was the only way Bucky could give it. There was a purpose for it regardless.

The three knocks came sooner than he expected, a hefty cough following it. Dropping the sponge, Bucky went to the door, took a deep breath, and swung it open, facing his landlord. Within the man’s hands was a box of desert that he thrust into Bucky’s grasp.

“I got us cake,” he explained, hobbling inside as Bucky moved to the side. “Easy to store and finish. Oh. Did you just finish decorating?”

Bucky nodded sheepishly. And closed the door, turning all the locks as a precaution. The mattress was pushed against the wall, landscape. In the centre was a table he stole from one of the empty flats in the building, and chairs surrounding it from various rooms too, none his. On the table he lit a candle to transmit an aroma and conceal the smell of the deterioration in the room.

Because he knew it was tradition, he had bought a Christmas tree, something that would probably be for a child and made from plastic. Poorly decorated, there was a single string of fairy lights wrapped around the branches that run out three quarters of the way, and too many baubles hanging off. There was tinsel to make up for the lack of light, something he had to run and get, and to finish it off, a broken star that he got discounted from the shop.

Nonetheless, he pinned tinsel to dangle from the walls and even stuck some around the perimeter of the table. Lastly, because the silence was overbearing, he had bought a cassette player with a cassette full of Christmas songs, which currently played lowly in the background.

It wasn’t a lot, hell- it wasn’t enough. Steve could’ve done better, his landlord deserved better. But it was what he managed to do, spending his remaining leis on it and hoping that it looked somewhat decent. This was the best he could manage.

“First Christmas?” Florin asked him, a small smile across his face as he spared him a glance.

Bucky nodded awkwardly, ready for the judgement.

“It’s perfect,” Florin said.

Bucky gaped. That, he was not expecting.

He had ordered food whilst assembling the items needed to decorate the flat. Due to pick it up in thirty minutes, Bucky spent the remaining time acquainting his landlord with the room that he rented to Bucky and anxiously looking at the door, wondering if the absence was a message in itself. Could it be?

Eventually, he had to leave but promised to return swiftly, food in hand if nothing else. Even if Steve didn’t show it would be okay, Florin deserved it and that was what he concentrated on, he was getting a low budget version of what he deserved.

Turned out his anxiety was unjust, as when he returned, knocking three time on the door as he had said he would, the door swung open and there he saw none other than Steve, the one he had been anticipating. Sat at the table, Florin laughed and urged him in, already engrossed in a story about Steve that he couldn’t hear. He came. Steve came.

“You came,” he breathed, just because the disbelief was palpable.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Steve asked, smirking slightly. He nodded honestly. “I always come home.”

“Even when home is an unstable, 97-year-old man?” he asked.

Steve nodded sincerely. “Especially then.”

They ate the food, listened to the music, and Florin guffawed all the way through. He didn’t recognise Steve, not many did apparently, but he loved him, nevertheless. When giving the gifts, he was surprised that Steve had bought him one and took it from him cautiously. Florin apologised profusely, to which Bucky reminded him that he was the one who bought desert.

He also vehemently refused to take what Bucky gave. Proclaimed that the evening itself was too much. But after coaxing and encouragement he took it, exclaiming when he saw what it was. An ugly Christmas jumper which Bucky heard was a tradition. It was too late to wear it, but it was the only thing he could think of. Florin wore it immediately.

To Steve he gifted a pocket watch, something he bought from an antique shop that cost a bit more than he could afford but wanted to, nonetheless. The hands were frozen, stagnant behind the glass, so it would need repairing. But he thought, it was a reminder. For himself maybe, and for Steve. Time was a fickle thing, and they had plenty of it to worry in.

To his surprise, he also got a present- from Steve. And to his delight, they were socks. Fuzzy socks that he could never wear in case he ruined them, but they were his, they were bought and earned, and they were the first gift he had ever received since his escape. He never wanted to part with them.

When the night drew to an end and Florin left, stomach full and smile wide, there were only them left in the flat. Nobody wanted to address the main issue, definitely not him. But like a soldier, Steve did and spoke first.

“I have temporary accommodation here, in New York, Washington and countries all around the world. I have nothing to do, nowhere to be, and nothing to be. I can be with you, or I can leave and never follow you again until I need to see you, because I’m selfish and I can never stray too far, Buck. is that what you wanted?” Steve looked hopeful.

_Giving isn’t always a gift, sometimes, it’s a chance._

“And if I want to stay here, together?” he asked, nervous though he wouldn’t let it show.

Steve’s face broke out into a smile. “Then I’d say your wish is my command.”

“That’s a bold claim,” Bucky told him.

Steve shrugged. “For you? It always is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know, it's kinda shitty but I've been really ill and while trying to manage that a long with life I,, may have forgotten how to write. but you deserve a pat on the back for getting this far. good job!
> 
> tumblr:  bountifulsilences   
> twitter:  AwestruckBuck 


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